by Isis Rushdan
“You only came up because he asked if I was married,” Evan added. “I said I was engaged to a brilliant, beautiful woman I couldn’t live without.”
“He even neglected to mention your name.” Cyrus extended his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you properly.”
She stared at his thick palm and a frisson of excitement rippled through her, moistening her panties. Evan cleared his throat and nudged her elbow. She couldn’t risk touching Cyrus again. What if she couldn’t let him go?
As Cyrus dropped his hand, his eyes locked on hers, piercing her soul with the undeniable intensity of lightning striking steel. Her heart slowed with an erratic pulse, as if it had forgotten how to beat. A soft sigh slipped from her mouth. Everything around her crumbled into dust: the party, the terrace…Evan. Only Cyrus remained.
“Sweets, you’re shaking. Are you cold?” Evan rubbed her arm.
Cyrus turned away and the world moved once more.
“Evan, do you remember the deal I’m working on in London?” Cyrus asked.
“The acquisition of a small biometrics company. I remember quite well.”
“The deal is not going the way I’d like.”
“I’m yours now,” Evan said. “Do you want me to go over the contract?”
“I want you in London on Monday to oversee the acquisition personally.” Cyrus strolled to the doors. “This is short notice, but I don’t want to put unnecessary delays in the process.”
Evan let her go and followed. “You’re paying us a great deal to handle your legal requirements, no matter how short notice. I’ll make arrangements to fly out this weekend.”
Evan wasn’t a slight man, but standing next to Cyrus, he seemed small in stature. Or perhaps Cyrus, luminous as the sun, couldn’t help the way he eclipsed other men.
Her body had never responded to a man the way it did with Cyrus. She loved Evan, but they’d never kindled a spark, much less a fire. Nonetheless she couldn’t let a blaze of lust incinerate sixteen years of steadfast friendship and the safety net of her only family.
The electric current from Cyrus ebbed as the two men strolled inside, until it was no longer palpable, leaving emptiness in its wake.
She staggered to the patio table and gripped the back of a chair. How could she be enamored with a stranger? Love at first sight was for fairytales. And it was completely beyond the realm of possibility with some jetsetter who would have been featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, my ass.
Yet no one had ever roused such sweet euphoria. The feel of the world falling away enveloped her once more and she sank into a patio chair.
Chapter Four
Forty-one hours after touching his kabashem, Cyrus still couldn’t decide if fate was kind or cruel. He stretched his neck from side to side as he wielded his sword. Planting his bare feet on the gym mat, he prepared for his sparring partner’s advance.
Abbadon, his advisor and old friend, swung his blade high, aimed at the head. Cyrus ducked and rolled to the side on his knees. As he sprang to his feet, their swords clashed in a flurry of silver.
The strident clanging of the metal brought him familiar comfort. Sweat trickled down his brow and he relished the burn building in his arms and thighs. He needed to work off the sting of his setback.
Thanks to Serenity’s obstinacy or her attachment to the human, his plan the other night had completely fallen apart. He’d heard how others had met their kabashem, and about the instant, irrefutable attraction. Hell, he’d felt it and it had taken every ounce of self-control to keep from peeling her clothes off.
Sometimes politics and the issue of redemption clouded things between mates, but with Serenity there were no Kindred beliefs to muddy the waters. What had gone wrong with his approach? One of the most feared warriors amongst Kindred and chosen to be the next Council member to govern his House, but he couldn’t garner enough interest from his kabashem to get her to agree to dinner.
“It is a good omen she doesn’t belong to one of the other Houses,” Abbadon said. “War would be upon us if you tried to unite with her under those circumstances.”
If the other Houses discovered he’d found his kabashem, war would still be inevitable. Even though more Kindred became afflicted every day with either bloodlust or the dark veil, both devastating their species, some didn’t want the curse to end. It would mean the loss of their preternatural powers in exchange for redemption. They’d sooner choose death, and most certainly war, than to be relegated to the mediocrity of humankind.
The two circled each other. His opponent thrust his sword out and Cyrus parried every strike with fluidity honed over years of training. The blows were quick and tight, testing Cyrus’s reflexes as well as his judgment. Their blades collided, locking together. Metal grated against metal. The sword twisted loose from Cyrus’s hand and clunked to the mat.
He landed two swift uppercuts to Abbadon’s chin. “Approaching her when she thinks she’s human was like sailing into battle without knowing which way the wind would blow.”
His sparring partner quickly regained his bearings. “She may think she’s human, but you have the advantage.” Abbadon kept his sword high. “Use it to make her submit.”
“You’ve little appreciation for a human’s mindset, especially a human female.”
Cyrus slammed the heel of his foot into Abbadon’s gut and knocked the sword from his hand. Without giving his opponent time to recover, he seized Abbadon by the throat and brought him to the floor in a monstrous thud. The concrete floor cracked beneath the mat.
Wrestling to break free, Abbadon grunted. His skin shifted to the cobalt blue color of a Kindred warrior preparing for real combat. He rose, lifting Cyrus. Abbadon snarled as his wings unfurled with an imposing swish. Cyrus railed on the inside. He’d never get his wings until his life force merged fully with his mate’s, activating his dormant power.
He scrambled to offset his adversary’s new edge. He might not have wings, but he could still mete out a fearsome dose of damage, as long as he didn’t let him take to the air.
Cyrus sent his elbow crashing into Abbadon’s head.
Thrown off balance, Abbadon tottered for a second, then ascended from the floor. With a growl, Cyrus snatched the winged warrior’s ankle and yanked him back to the ground.
Fists hammered flesh, spiking the musky air with the metallic scent of blood. Cyrus embraced the pain to sharpen his focus and determination to win. Wounds could be healed later.
When Abbadon doubled over, Cyrus knew he had him. A knee to the head and an elbow to the base of the neck, and Abbadon dropped to his knees.
Cyrus towered over him, chest heaving. “Concede.”
Abbadon staggered to his feet. Sapphire drained from his complexion as his wings retracted. “Since you’re reluctant to take my advice, what do you intend to do?”
Tightness knitted through the muscles of Cyrus’s back. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. “I’m going to collect her now and bring her home.”
He had to handle the situation with shrewd delicacy like the politician he was groomed to be and not with the force of the warrior he was born. He didn’t know what he was going to say or how he was going to do it, but he was going to claim his mate. With Evan in London and no opposing House to stand in his way, failure a third time was unacceptable.
Since he’d disconnected from her pool of energy, a chill lingered in his blood and his stream had slowed to a crawl. The life force of the collective had been sufficient to sustain him for more than two centuries. Now the ripples he felt from the others were barely tangible. He needed the lightning bolt of her energy, needed the heat of her body warming him.
More than the fulfillment of his desire was at stake. Too many were dying from the dark veil and he was being called upon several times a week to euthanize more brethren lost to blood frenzy. His task to safeguard the Kindred race from exposure, keeping their existence secret from humanity, was growing more difficult.
Abbadon placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “You and your kabashem are the greatest hope for redemption in a thousand years. The road ahead of you will not be easy, but you must succeed where the other Blessed unions failed.”
They hadn’t simply failed. The other three couples over the millennia had been killed.
There was no telling if he and Serenity would be able to open themselves and trust one another enough for their split souls to fully reunite as one, or how long it could take. And that was the easy part. Only the birth of a child from a Blessed couple, the manifestation of a Fallen one’s soul restored and made whole, would break the curse wiping out Kindred like an epidemic.
He tamped down the doubt clawing up in his chest. He had to succeed or his species would soon be extinct.
Talus crept around the periphery of the gym near a rack of weapons. Her stealth had improved. She’d never gotten so close without him noticing.
“Did you cut flowers from the garden for me?” he asked without looking in her direction.
“Of course,” Talus said as she approached. “I put them in the car. No roses. Blush peonies, just as you instructed. And I got you this.” She thrust a box of chocolates toward him. “On commercials, human males are always buying chocolates and diamonds for women.”
He raised an eyebrow at the heart-shaped box. Diamonds would have been more fitting. The corners of Talus’s mouth drooped and her eyes grew big. The look made him think of a wounded pup. Begrudgingly, he took the box. “Thank you. This is excellent initiative.”
His ward’s face lightened. “Why did you pull me from surveillance? Did I do something wrong?”
“You did nothing wrong. Surveillance is no longer necessary.”
Talus stared at him as if waiting for him to elaborate. “I’ll wait in the car to drive you as soon you’re ready to go.”
“I’ve asked Cassian to play chauffeur. Why don’t you take a couple of days off, go to the brownstone in the city and have fun? I’ll send your brother to join you later.”
After Serenity’s reaction to Talus, he wanted the girl as far away as possible for now.
“I did do something wrong.”
He kissed her forehead. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a reward for all your hard work.”
Her face contorted into a grimace, but she nodded and left without protest.
Cyrus scrutinized the red box of chocolates. He had to get Serenity to trust and desire him. Candy didn’t seem the best way to start.
A union between kabashem, Blessed or not, could be precarious and never ensured harmony or happiness. His gaze fixed on the one-inch scar over Abbadon’s heart.
“I’ve always wondered why you didn’t let the healer mend the wound completely.”
Abbadon ran two fingers across the mark, his eyes cast down. “I keep it to remind me, duty before love. It would behoove you to bear the same in mind.”
Trapped in a miasma of doubt, Serenity drifted in line at the arts and crafts store toward the register. Cyrus’s smile burned a hole in her mind. She couldn’t forget the sound of his melodic voice or the rush of elation from his touch.
“Forty-two fifty,” the clerk said, bagging her items.
Yanked from her thoughts, she dug in the satchel slung across her body and paid for her supplies. She took the bag and left the store, glancing at her watch. Two-thirty. Evan was probably nose-deep in files on the acquisition in his hotel in London.
The fiery zing she’d felt from Cyrus blurred her clarity about marrying Evan in a haze of heat. The new hunger in her core, the lusty burn between her thighs tortured her. Until the other night, she was convinced either those darn magazine articles in Cosmo were full of horse pucky or she was a freak incapable of feeling genuine desire.
She had tried to talk to Evan and confess her concerns about everything, but he was too wrapped up in the acquisition deal. Every time she looked at the engagement ring the same word repeated in her mind. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
She needed to sketch and paint. Busy hands meant her mind would be preoccupied with something other than Cyrus. It wasn’t as if she’d ever see him again and even if she did, it’d change nothing. Only a calm and cool relationship could be controlled and trusted. By the time Evan returned, everything would be back to normal. She rifled through her bag of art supplies and realized she’d forgotten to buy a packet of charcoal sticks.
With an aggravated shake of the bag, she turned to go back and stand in line for another twenty minutes. At the end of the block, a man closed the door of a shiny black SUV illegally parked in a bus zone and walked in her direction. Wiry and ripped, the tall guy had a thick mustache and dark ball cap. Their eyes met and he looked away, slowing in front of a window display of a store.
Icicles prickled her spine and she froze. She would’ve dismissed him, no cause for concern, if she hadn’t seen the same man on her morning jog through Central Park, and again on her way to the art store. It was probably nothing more than coincidence, but every sixth sense instinct she had screamed: run.
The man pressed on his ear, drawing her eyes to a wire that ran down his neck and into his shirt. She wheeled around in a one-eighty and walked away, trying to shake the eerie feeling crawling through her as an overreaction. He couldn’t possibly be following her. Could he?
She glimpsed over her shoulder, and he stared at her.
Her heart skittered as she looked straight ahead. A stinging ripple of energy scraped her core and her stomach ached as if a fist squeezed her intestines. She rushed down the street to the mega department store on the corner. So what if she looked like an idiot and felt like a coward running from the bogeyman. Caution before pride would keep her face off of the side of a milk carton. She yanked open the door to the store, glancing back.
The man moved with a sense of purpose toward her. He lifted his wrist to his mouth, and two doors of the SUV creeping down the block opened. But she wasn’t sticking around to see who got out.
Racing by a cosmetics counter, she darted into an accessories department and ducked behind a jewelry display. What was she doing, other than completely losing her slippery grip on reality? First her father materialized on a train, and now this. A stalker was the cherry on top of a nut sundae she didn’t need. And what was with the earpiece? Seeing that guy three times in one day was probably a fluke, but with her luck, the odds were against it.
Secret agent man marched by, scanning the area. Her pulse spiked as she groped her satchel, checking for the bulge of her pepper spray. Staying crouched low, she scurried to the men’s department, winding through racks of slacks and displays of jeans. She bolted for a door letting her exit on a different block. With a small break in traffic, she dashed across the street.
Tires screeched. A taxi slammed on the brakes less than a foot from hitting her, horn blaring. Sucking in a startled breath as she grabbed her chest, she noticed the medallion light at the top of the yellow cab was on.
“Wait! Please!” She hit the hot hood of the car, ran around the side and hopped in.
“You trying to get killed, lady! My insurance is high enough.”
She slid down in the seat, blurted out an apology and rattled off her address.
I’m not crazy. I am NOT crazy.
“I beg to differ,” the cabbie said, scowling at her from the rearview mirror.
Had she said that out loud?
When the taxi pulled in front of her building, she gave him a generous tip, another mortified apology, and hurried up to the condo. Inside, she threw on the deadbolt and the chain. Pressing her back against the door, she caught her breath, letting the chaos in her mind settle.
The doorbell rang and she whirled in fright. Her heart throbbed in her throat. She took a steady breath and looked through the peephole.
A man wearing a jacket and white collared shirt stood on the other side. He pounded on the door. “Ms. Shaw, I need to speak with you about an urgent matter of National Security.”
National Secu
rity? Were government agents following her? Why didn’t they approach her in a rational way, with a smile and a business card? And what did agents want with her?
She slid off the deadbolt, keeping the chain on, and peeked through the crack. Two other men, who had been standing out of view, came into sight.
The three muscular men sporting buzz cuts crowded in her doorway. Small buds connected to wires protruded from their right ears. The one with a gnarled scar running from his cheek to his chin flashed a badge and put it away before she had chance to see it clearly.
“Ms. Shaw, I’m Russ Stone. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Questions about what?” she stammered.
He held up a picture of Cyrus. “Do you know this man?”
She rocked back on her heels. “Cyrus?”
“How do you know him?”
An acrid taste filled her mouth. “What agency are you with?”
“May we come in?” The man busted through the door, popping the chain, nearly knocking her down. He grabbed her elbow and shoved her backward, forcing her feet to move.
“Hey!” She smacked his arm, but he had her locked in a vise grip.
He threw her onto the sofa. The last one entered and slammed the door.
She popped back to her feet. “You’re not cops. Who are you?”
The scariest one with the scar sucked up her personal space as he advanced, glaring down at her. “It would be wise to remain seated so we can be sure you won’t get hostile,” he said in a low voice, opening his blazer to reveal a gun.
The others fanned out in different directions as he fastened a broad hand on her shoulder and pressed down until her butt hit the cushion. He took a seat across from her and rested his palms on his thighs as he spread his legs, dragging his steel-toed boots across the carpet.
